I was at the Bowl last nite, on stage. Gustavo Dudamel is really short and never stops talking. He is even understandable in places. A cocktail party. Drank weak mojitos and ate finger food off trays carried about by perfectly postured waiters. The food was vaguely Latin in a Beverly Hills kinda way. Wound up talking to two cool little gay guys who sounded like each other, a black dude taller than me, a couple reporters, a couple babes, Johnny Polanco, and avoided all the publicists by not saying who I was. Well, most of them. There were all these suits there, I have no idea who they were. I never do. I never want to. Squaresville. The secret is to show up to these things, make the press people look good so they return the favor throughout the season. There was an ancient old lady there is a full length dress in shattering Sex Pistols pink. Way cool. The reporters stood around and told stories of how high they had gotten at the Bowl. One had passed out. That was impressive. I left at dusk, and watched a bat flying over the parking lot. It fluttered in crazy patterns, snatching unseen bugs. I watched till it disappeared in the twilight, then got into my car, wended my way through the parking lot and back into reality.